


Prodigal Son

by FreshBrains



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Community: comment_fic, M/M, Nude Modeling, POV Daryl Dixon, Post-Break Up, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 10:16:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10488564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: The room quiets and Daryl sees a peek of a blue bathrobe coming out from the main exhibit hall. He rolls back his paper, getting a new sheet ready for when the model enters his first pose.Then he looks up and the entire world dies around him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the LJ Comment_fic prompt: _Daryl Dixon/Paul "Jesus" Rovia, Paul poses nude for Daryl's art class_.

“This is going to be good,” Carol murmurs next to Daryl, hiding a smirk as she selects a pencil from her set. Though she’s a sculptor, she’s agreed to attend the life drawing seminar with Daryl. Atlanta’s art community is small enough them to easily band together, especially when a big name like Daryl Dixon comes back for their annual art crawl.

“If you say so,” Daryl grumbles in agreement. He’s a painter through-and-through, likes the mess and the space of it, and figure drawing isn’t _his_ strong suit, either. He can hear the whispers around them, especially from the younger Greene girl whose work is so good Daryl is thinking of buying her collection if it doesn’t sell by the end of the crawl. “Don’t know what all the fuss is about.”

“You’ll see,” Carol says in that tight-lipped way of hers. “That pencil is too light.”

“Busybody,” Daryl says, but it’s all in good fun. It takes a lot more to ruffle his feathers.

Any publication, exhibit flyer, or fansite would all tell you the same thing—that Daryl came from nothing and made himself into _something_ , that he’s fearless, he’s dangerous. And he’s proud of it, really—any man who makes a career for himself _should_ be proud. But he shrinks under the idea that he’s molded from his background like so much clay, especially considering how he left the city.

The room quiets and Daryl sees a peek of a blue bathrobe coming out from the main exhibit hall. He rolls back his paper, getting a new sheet ready for when the model enters his first pose. Then he looks up and the entire world dies around him.

Jesus— _Paul, fuck, I got no right to call him a nickname anymore—_ Rovia steps onto the podium, the lights coming down to shine on his hair. God, Daryl has missed that hair—silky and golden-brown and _longer_ now, pulled up into a messy bun. His beard is still thick and Daryl can almost feel the scratch of it on his inner thighs. His eyes look like ice under the harsh light, but he’s got that small smile on his lips, the one that lets the world know he _sees_ them.

He turns, hip cocked right at Daryl, and drops his robe. Daryl’s pencil falls through his fingers and clatters onto the floor, the sound like a gunshot in the silent studio. _It was too light, anyways_ , he thinks, fishing for a new one with clumsy fingers. Paul is still built like every wet dream Daryl has ever had—tight stomach, thick thighs, perfect ass. He can see the dusting of freckles over Paul’s shoulders and wants to lick them up. Before he turns to enter a pose, Paul locks eyes with Daryl and _winks_.

On the back of his left thigh, right under his ass, is a small tattoo of an arrow.

“First pose,” Carol cajoles from next to him. “Pencil up, loverboy.”

*

When Paul steps off the podium and the class begins to pack up, Daryl immediately rips off his sheaf of drawings, crumples them in his fist, and makes his way towards the back.

“Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” Carol calls after him, but he just chucks his sketches into a trash can and scans the row of smaller rooms. The last one is the darkroom, and Daryl can see movement under the door. The door handle is cool under his sweaty palm, and when he enters the room, all he can smell is the warm evergreen cologne he bought Paul for his birthday last summer.

“Do you like the tattoo?” Paul is still in his robe, though it is open at the chest and he’s wearing a pair of white boxer briefs. He takes a swig out of his water bottle, and Daryl can see his fingers shake. “I got it the month after you left. Angry decision.”

“You should turn the light off,” Daryl says gruffly. He slams the door behind them and starts unbuckling his belt. _It’s like I never left,_ he thinks, closing the distance between them. “This is the goddamn darkroom.”

“I don’t see any photos,” Paul counters, but grins before reaching over and turning off the light.

Their bodies meet in the dark, falling together like the last eight months had simply melted away.

*

“Carol sent me photos of your last exhibit,” Paul says. They’re tangled together on an abandoned paint-stained canvas in the corner of the room, the smell of chemical bath and turpentine clinging to their sweaty skin. Paul’s fingers, constantly stained dark from the ink he uses in his books, trail down Daryl’s bare chest.

Daryl feels himself flush. He tightens an arm around Paul. “Never meant for you to see them.” They’ve turned on the detail light, bathing the room in a soft red glow.

His last show included a series of triptychs in green and brown and grey oils, folding in on each other, all showing the unmistakable form of Christ on the cross, only the face was always blurred out in an angry slash of black and the figures wore crowns of colorful wildflowers instead of thorns.

“Atonement,” Paul says softly. The name of the exhibit. “They were beautiful.” He snuggles in closer, hiding his face in Daryl’s chest.

“But they weren’t enough,” Daryl says. Nothing could ever be enough to make up for how he left, how he said goodbye to the town that raised him, how he left behind the only man who ever truly knew him. “You should hate me.”

“I did,” Paul says. He moves to straddle Daryl, palms pressed to his chest. His hair has fallen out of his tie, curling against his clavicle, and Daryl has never loved anyone as much as he loves Paul in this moment. “But you came back.”

Daryl reaches around to rub his thumb against Paul’s tattoo, making him shiver. “I want to try again,” he says, too ashamed to meet Paul’s eyes. “If you’ll let me.”

Paul bites his lip like he’s considering it. “Let’s start with you showing me your sketches.” His beautiful face breaks out in a smile, and before long, they’re tangled up in the canvas again, red shadows stretching across their skin.


End file.
